


give me just one (k)night

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, mem cup mem cup mem cup mem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 14:45:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16536626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: Mitch stinks of sweat, champagne, and cheap beer, and Matt still lets him pull him out of the locker room.





	give me just one (k)night

**Author's Note:**

> i'm??? not good at no nut november??

Mitch stinks of sweat, champagne, and cheap beer, and Matt still lets him pull him out of the locker room, fingers tangled together as they duck around the rest of the team cheering their lungs out. Because, hey, they won the goddamn Memorial Cup.

And, like, that’s the thing. They won the _Memorial Cup_ , Matt knows it better than anyone else, his hands are still shaking from scoring the OT winner, paired with a tight knot in his stomach that won’t let him believe it. That _he_ did that. They should be back with the rest of the boys, partying their asses off and forgetting there’s a morning of headaches and sluggishness awaiting them, but Matt’s here. He’s right behind Mitch, his hand jittery where Mitch is holding onto it—talking about whatever.

Really, Matt lost his ability to process anything but the words _Mem Cup_ the second the goal horn went off and his heart leapt into his throat. He’s not too sure what Mitch is saying, even when they stop down the hallway, farther away from the locker room than Matt would’ve thought they’d go. 

The loud cheers from the rest of a guys have dulled down into a faint murmur from here, and the only voice Matt can really register is Vic’s. It makes him smile, knowing the soft-spoken kid from Ontario is the one blowing his top over this. And, again, they should probably be experiencing that but they’re out in some random hallway, and it doesn’t even feel wrong.

Mitch’s hair is wet and sticking to his forehead, but his eyes are so fucking bright. Matt wasn’t sure what they’d be doing when they came out here, but judging from Mitch’s smile, that wide grin that’s just a little too big for his face, he gets an idea.

It’s happened a couple times before, after games, where Mitch has been so insistent on pulling Matt aside after big wins, to keep him all for himself, and Matt, if he’s honest, really likes that. He likes it when Mitch deliberately pulls him aside, especially now, when they’re right outside an all too familiar janitor’s closet. 

Matt can’t even do anything but laugh, something breathless, and his hand lands on the doorknob. “We doing this?” He asks, and it’s filled with fragments of a challenge. Matt can’t even help the confidence settling low in his gut, fuelled by the game, and the Cup, and _his goal_. 

All of that is written so clearly across Mitch’s face, Matt would be lying if he said he wasn’t expecting the, “Fuck yeah,” that slips from his lips. 

It’s Matt’s turn to tug Mitch along, and he’s quick enough to pull them into the closet that he doesn’t think anyone saw them. Either way, they have to keep it down. For the sake of preserving their dignity, as much as Matt feels like he could fly after their win. 

It’s goes like: Mitch tells him, “Good game,” in this snarky tone like it wasn’t a big fucking deal, and he’s smirking when he leans into Matt’s space to kiss him.

There isn’t much space to begin with, not here especially, which gives Matt enough of a reason to push Mitch harder against the door. They don’t stop when they hear the wood thump from the pressure, instead wearing out loose adrenaline from the game through a kiss fierce enough to leave Matt dizzy. All of his rationality goes out the window when he’s here, crowded up against Mitch, his skin wet and hot under Matt’s palms. 

Mitch’s fingers are scratching at the little hairs on the nape of Matt’s neck, just short of pulling, and Matt thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind that. To get a little roughed up, pushed further than they’d usually go. 

And then—“Your fucking goal,” Mitch says into the space between their lips. He’s panting already, and Matt can fucking _taste_ the champagne on his breath. “Matt, _holy shit_ , best goal of the year.” 

Matt can still remember Mitch crashing into him on the ice, yelling in his ear and hugging him tighter than he ever has. He’d praised him then, but this feels different, under muted lights and between shallow breaths. His fingers are explorative and oh-so-curious, and when they hook onto Matt’s pants, he can’t help but melt a little under his touch. 

“Mitch—“

“Anything you want,” Mitch says, and then his hand slips to Matt’s front, palming him rough enough for his breath to catch. “I’ll give it to you. You deserve it, Matty. You were so fucking good.”

And it doesn’t take a genius to realize where this is going, with Mitch’s gaze trained a lot lower than Matt’s face, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“You wanna get on your knees for me?” Matt asks, and he can’t help but smile when Mitch obeys so fucking quickly, greedy for all of Matt’s attention. He looks up with big eyes, and he’s quick to unfasten Matt’s pants, reaching into his boxers and pulling him out like he can’t wait to get his mouth on Matt’s dick—and just that thought is enough to make it twitch in Mitch’s grip. 

“Wanna come on my face or—“ Mitch throws a cheeky grin at him, jacking Matt off with patient strokes.

“What, so you can walk into the locker room covered in come?” And, like, as much as Matt would like that, walking in behind a tousled Mitch looking dazed out of his fucking mind, so just about nothing is left to imagination, they probably shouldn’t. 

Mitch sniggers at him, and doesn’t give him much of an answer aside from taking his dick into his mouth.

Which is—a lot. Matt immediately rakes his fingers through Mitch’s hair, trying to keep himself from fucking into his mouth. He’s not trying to choke him on his dick, as much as he’d like to feel Mitch’s throat click around him. He’s not so much of an asshole to do that without asking. But it still takes every ounce of willpower to hold himself back, because the thought of Mitch with swollen lips and watery eyes looking up at him is a lot to handle. 

Right then, Mitch glances up at him, his pupils dilated and his lips stretched obscenely around his dick, and Matt can’t help but let out the groan scratching at his throat. It’s not loud, not enough to warrant any worrying between them.

“You look so good like this,” Matt breathes, burying his fingers a little deeper in Mitch’s hair. He’s not pulling, not really, instead keeping his hand there as a weight. A reminder of just where they are. “Wish I could keep you here all day— _fuck_. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Mitch traps the small sound he makes around his dick, and Matt feels it buzz down to his gut. 

He wants to hear Mitch again, so he tightens the grip he has on his hair until it’s a little more than sturdy, and Mitch makes another pretty noise right underneath him. Matt’s going to lose his mind. 

And there’s no way Mitch doesn’t know the kind of effect he has on Matt, too fucking well maybe, because it’s definitely more than a little intentional when he slows the bobs of his head and grabs Matt’s other hand, setting it right over his cheek where Matt can _feel_ himself moving in and out of Mitch’s mouth. 

He can’t help himself then, circling his hips forward and listening to Mitch gag, but he doesn’t pull off, and Matt squeezes his eyes shut, because that’s about as much as he can take.

He breathes in, and Mitch swallows it all when Matt comes down his throat.

It takes another moment until he pulls off, and Matt’s hanging in this hazy middle between fucked out and energized when he does. 

“Gosh, you’re so good to me, thanks for the warning,” Mitch says when he gets back to his feet. It’s sarcasm, but he doesn’t sound pissed, Matt would be able to distinguish as much, because his voice comes out light and bubbly. Still Mitch.

“Fuck, sorry,” Matt blurts out anyways, and Mitch laughs when he leans in to kiss him on the cheek. “Let me get you back?”

“No time,” Mitch says, but he doesn’t sound all that disappointed. He’s already opening the door back up, swiping a hand over his lips. “You owe me, though.”

“Obviously,” Matt says, and lets his hand playfully come down against his ass. Mitch gasps before shoving at him.

“Now you owe me double,” Mitch jokes, and Matt isn’t sure if it’s just him or if Mitch’s voice sounds absolutely wrecked. It’s a little more than obvious, what they’ve been doing. What with Mitch’s messy hair and watery eyes, but he’s riding on the idea that most of rest of the team will be too hammered to notice anyways. Hopefully.

“Whatever you want, babe.” Matt tags the pet name on as a joke, but it still gets a warm smile to play at Mitch’s lips. 

“Ready?” Mitch asks, when they’re right outside the locker room. 

“Ready,” Matt says, and he feels the excitement of winning the cup wash over him all over again.

It’s finally theirs.


End file.
